


Unstoppable

by orphan_account



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6736120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How easy it was to command them and their fixed little morals — just the act of making love to her boyfriend had them doubling over in their tracks and scurrying past like it’s a trainwreck they didn’t want to be caught bystander to.  </p><p>(She needs a release, she needs to make a statement, she always needs his little dose of freedom and power, however fleeting. Shameless Syndra/Zed smut I wrote for a Modern!AU I got with some people)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unstoppable

**Author's Note:**

> A piece written for a High School/Modern AU formulated by me and some friends, set in fictional American 'Runeterra City' and written from Syndra's perspective.
> 
> For some basic context, Syndra in this AU was a child of recovering drug-addicts taken from her parents at a young age due to authorities believing them incapable of raising her and put in a restrictive, conservative foster home. Embittered by the situation she's grown into a struggling, spiteful teenager who cherishes freedom and some agency in her life, as well holds as a whole lot of spite for the system. Zed is a classmate, another problem kid from her neighborhood whose violent anger issues burned whatever bridges he'd once had with a former circle of friends (especially Shen, his once friend and the son of his despised therapist) and left him in a lonely state of wrath and loathing. The two found each other, at the very least.

They’re out of cigarettes, and that’s usually their cue to head back. But Syndra isn’t ready to go.

“Zed wait.”

 **(** He stands up anyway, too focussed on smothering the used cigarette butt beneath his sneaker, like he’s making a point to tread the life from the grass **)**

 **(** Of course. **)**

The central park was the Administrative Division of Ionia’s evergreen pride and joy and as of late, their refuge of choice. When their rage against the system became too much to contain in the very prison that kindled it **(** her home **)** , they’d come here, they’d stamp on fresh grass, they’d deface the dainty little picket signs urging them not to, and they’d find a park bench by the footpath and sit there and smoke the whole pack through side by side as the sun set and the thinning crowd of parkgoers passed by, affording them their ire and their uneasy glances and even their spit. All for being who they were. Being Syndra and Zed.

Today it was his idea to come here, and her problem. Her half-yearly inspection day, when the woman from child services would come by and tally up her tardies and run her drug test and remind her of her convictions, tell her in a peppered voice that didn’t even pretend to believe its own bullshit that they were sympathetic to her situation, but that her derelict conduct wasn’t the answer, that in her current state she was on a path to nowhere and the world’s sympathy would run dry before long. And then her screaming — at the bitch from child services and her foster mother and later herself — that she already knew that, what did she know better **(** suffer better **)** than that this world would never show her mercy. She’d needed him to bring her here, to help her find the shred of the freedom she needed to even hope to sleep tonight. But they’d been here hours and done everything they always did and she still felt trapped and frightened and helpless and wrathful. And the sun had set and they were out of cigarettes.

“I don’t want to go back yet.”

He looks down at her **(** she’s kneeling on the bench, her nails digging furiously at the flesh of her own knee **)** and without a word sits himself back down at her side. His eyes ask the question instead **(** “ _then what?”_ **)** because he’s out of ideas. So is she, she doesn’t know _what_ she wants, just that she wasn’t ready to go home. But having him around couldn’t hurt.

He’s done smoking so he’s trying to fix his surgical mask **(** anything to distract himself from how helpless he feels, probably **)** but before he can she lulls her head onto his shoulder, presses her lips against his scarred cheek and rests her palm against the firmness of his chest, feeling the strength of his heartbeat. In silence he follows, he dips his nose against her scalp **(** she almost feels bad. she stinks of bleach **)** slides his arms around her **(** it’s all he can think to do, to help, and he does it in an instant **)** and she lets him hold her for a long moment. And already, she feels a little better. Forget terrorizing the district park, he reallywas the best comfort she had.

Maybe he was right, maybe there was nothing left to do here and they ought just go back and do what they always did when they’d run dry their other options for release **(** _fuck_ **)** because what better did she have than him. The thought grips her and she slides her palm down the length of his chest, the tips of her fingers dipping beneath his waist. She notes the swelling in his jeans **(** he exhales when she touches him **)** , that he’s on the same page as her **(** he always is **)** and for the first time all evening, she’s smirking so slightly. A wisp of night air streaks past her, and she comes to a better realization. A scandal.

Did she even have to go home? **(** she’s unstoppable. **)**

“ _Do you want to..?_ ” she looks up at him, and the words flutter hoarse from her lips **(** voice still battered from her outburst at home **)** but they’re nonetheless heavy with her eagerness and a budding lust and the heel of her palm’s still _there_ between his legs. All she needed was his word **(** and she knew he’d give it **)**.

“Here?” of course there’s no judgment in his tone, no indication he thought her mad, it’s a mere question to ensure that he’d heard right and hadn’t lost her words to the park’s ambient, that the _hunger_ dawning on his face now that the idea was implanted in his mind too wasn’t getting ahead of itself.

“What the _fuck’s_ it matter?” 

He laughs. She loved the way Zed laughed because he had the laugh of a man who wanted to ravage the world **(** ravage her **)** and it only thins her patience more — she lets him pull her over his lap, straddled with her legs to his either side, thighs raking at rough denim and knees buckled against the head of the park bench. 

He’s already fumbling with his jeans button but she slaps his hands away because he’s _too slow_ for what she wants and she releases him herself, fingers beginning to quake with anticipation as they brushed along his. She can’t wait another moment, she raises her hips and dips her hand beneath her skirt, nudging aside that last cumbersome strip of fabric that divided them — she lowers herself with a long, crying gasp that she doesn’t bother contain because she doesn’t _give a fuck_ who’s around to hear it. 

He grunts and goes to smother it in another kiss but she’s so overwhelmed by him she’s tipped her head back and he can’t meet her lips. He pecks and slips at her chin, her neck **(** he can’t get any grip, not when she’s already coated in sweat **)** instead and she’s holding the back of his head, grabbing at tufts of his spiky hair with her eyes blaring into the stars — she feels so wondrous, like every inch of rage and spite for this wretched world she’d carried within in her all evening had been banished to those heavens and the void they always left behind to be filled with hellish spirals of self-hate was filled by _him_ instead. And he felt as he always did, strongand warm and _there_ to share her rancour, to indulge it like this, his hands now kneading at the small of her back through her tank top **(** she could already feel the bruises forming, and she _loved_ that, his indiscriminate roughness, the way that nothing encumbered his strength not even their intimacy **)** and pushing her closer to him. 

She meets his gaze and he’s got hungry eyes as she starts to swivel her hips and meet him in his skiddy kisses and his thrusts and it’s all familiar motions to them but the haze is heavier and hotter than ever as this time their sweat is trapped beneath their clothes, chilled only for a moment at a time by the occasional sweeps of night breeze. But she wouldn’t have it any other way, and she loses herself in the euphoria and the heat and the dull ache and _him_ and she doesn’t know how long she’s been doing that when the patter of footsteps on the path she now had her back turned against alerts her that they had company, steps that come to a deliberate, stunned slow as their owner realizes what they’d walked into. Her skirt curtained the physical scandal but there was still little mistaking what they were doing from their movements alone, their hard ragged breathing - she _lets_ her moans spill out with full, emblazoned force so to send any shred of doubt remaining straight to the fire.

This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? People’s **(** the whole world’s **)** outrage, how fucking _easy_ it was to command them and their fixed little morals, just the act of making love to her boyfriend had them doubling over in their tracks and scurrying past like it’s a trainwreck they didn’t want to be caught bystander to. That thought threatened to tip her over the edge, and from just one more agitated **(** oh how he shared in her _thrill_ **)** thrust she’s tearing at his hair and blinded by sensation and squealing out to the stars that lit them. It’s so much, too much **(** she slips off him **)** but she feels like she’s floating **(** even as her balance gives and she lets him lie her atop the glossy bench and beneath him, rejoin with her and continue - after all, he’s not done and she’d never deny him the release they _both_ craved so similarly, so desperately **)** , like she’s never known rage and only ever bliss and that was all she had wanted that night.

“Fuck... _Syndra_ …”

“ _Zed_...ah... _you’re...so..”_

—heavy, he’s heavy and his weight’s more imposing than it had ever been now that his bones were crushing hers into wood with gaps in it rather than a mattress and the texture of his jacket and his jeans is rougher than his bare skin but she ravished it. The rocking heat of him and continuing ebb of her own climax and the forming bruises and the wind were bringing mist to her eyes, but she was smiling - one hand tenderly tracing at the scars that framed his mouth, the other hand scratching down the back of his coarse leather jacket. She raises her legs and twists and squeezes her thighs around the back of his, _tight_ , and giggles as he let out that spluttering grunt he always gave when she did that. He quickens, _fucking her_ with all he had and suddenly they’re gasping in unison all over again, and she can’t hear the footsteps over them and it’s almost a surprise to hear a middle-aged woman’s tirade cut through the air—

“Oi! _Stop that,_ you realize this is public property you—”

—it’s a flurry of the usual buzzwords “indecent” “criminal” “ _degenerates_ ” a comment about how they were probably addicts, another on how they were good for nothing, a threat to call the police. She responds with a single arm **(** the one not clawing at the back of his neck **)** extended to the night sky, middle finger pointing higher still and she hears the scoff and the retreat of their spectator and it pleases her but nothing excites her more than how _Zed_ didn’t slow down through any of it, whether he didn’t notice or better yet didn’t _care_ , that his hands were still grasping at her cheek and her chest and that his hips were still crashing into hers and nothing stops them until as suddenly and with as much fervor as if lightning had struck that park and struck him, he shudders and he groans and it’s done.

She brushes beads of sweat from his brow with the tips of her fingers as he finishes, tipping her head back and pushing her lips out to kiss him yet again, though this time it’s more like she’s catching his face as he collapses onto her, shivering as he spills into her. She holds him in the moonlight in a silence only punctured by their gasps, for who knew how long until they’ve found the strength to sit back up and replace what little sweat-drenched attire they’d unhinged. The park is empty, they’re watched only by starlight and dim street lamps. They were alone now. She wonders exactly how many people saw, if the police were en route. But none of that mattered to her anymore.

“Ah...whew…”

It’s all she can muster for that moment. She feels ache and the exhaustion and the sweat cascade over her body, but it’s a pleasant thing, she’s all but forgotten the pain she’d come here to run from. She feels so _free_ she’d cry if that didn’t seem so _pathetic._ So instead she sits there, leaning back into him, draping her arms around his shoulders. She looks at him **(** and he stares back at her — this boy, let him fuck her dry on a park bench and he’d still watch her with unquenchable desire. she adored that **)** , a dazed, unchained smile tugging at her lips.

“Lets go home.”


End file.
